"It's good to have you back, boys. It's not the same without you two going on upstairs," Mrs. Hudson trilled as Sherlock and John walked into the flat.

John stopped to chat to the landlady, but Sherlock pushed his way upstairs. He wouldn't admit to anything of the sort but he grew anxious when he was away from Baker Street. He liked to be home, be surrounded around by his possessions.

John got released later that day, earlier than the hospital probably would have liked, but, with Mycroft being at the center of the world... Sherlock smiled inwardly. He loved being able to take advantage of his brother.

He had settled into his chair with his laptop on his knees and a Bakewell tart in his hand by the time that John wandered up.

Sherlock didn't look back up.

"So, Sherlock-"

"Not now," he replied, peeling a bit of crust off the tart with his teeth.

"Being in the hospital's boring, so-"

"Not now," Sherlock echoed lightly, taking a full bite. "Did Mrs. Hudson make these? They're quite good."

"I got to thinking while I was in there-"

"Doubt it," he muttered dismissively, shoving the rest of the tart into his mouth as he abandoned pretense.

"- and I realized that, no matter what you say, you care for me."

Sherlock coughed over the tart. "Why-" he started, but found talking to be a lost cause with a full mouth. After swallowing, he continued with "- would you assume that?"

"You wouldn't sit there for a day if you didn't care. And don't say that I was just an experiment. If you wanted to conduct an experiment on me being unconscious, you'd just sit in my room at night." There was silence, to which Sherlock looked up at. John had a peculiar look on his face before he continued. "You don't sit in my room at night, do you?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"That does not make me feel any better..." John muttered, slipping his coat off.

"The tart will." Sherlock offered one of his. "It's delicious."

"I don't want a tart, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He went to nibbling on his second tart, stroking his finger over the touchpad of his laptop. He was pursuing through John's blog, smiling to himself.

"Why are you smiling?"

Sherlock smiled even more. "No reason. Going to have a kip now." He shut his laptop, grabbing the third tart off of the armrest of the chair.

"Tarts and a kip? What's gotten into you?"

"Near death brings out the worst in me," Sherlock replied with the passing of a sarcastic smile, breezing off to his bedroom. He closed the door behind him with a snap of finality. John wouldn't follow him. (Yet.)

His room was a sort of a sanctuary. It was essentially boring and essentially clean, which were two things that were rather dull, but he had the kitchen, and the living room, and the bathroom to his devices. Well, he liked to keep the bathroom to his devices, but John had this terrible habit of cleaning up his experiments. And if it wasn't John, it was Mrs. Hudson.

It annoyed him.

Oh well.

He threw himself down on the bed, snuggling into the duvet. Oh, home. Home smelled wonderful. He was past the terrible odour of disinfectant at the hospital, past the stench of illness and death and depression. He was back in his own flat, his own bedroom. He was back in the house that smelled of chemicals and laundry, newsprint and, oddly enough, John.

It was home. It was familiar. It was comforting.

"Sherlock!"

Oh, and there was John. Right on time.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, drawing his pillow close to him as he closed his eyes. He wasn't about to explain. So, he was asleep. As least, as far as John knew.

"Sherlock! You hacked into my laptop! Again!" John hissed, trying Sherlock's doorknob. It wasn't locked. He pushed it open. An invasion of privacy for an invasion of privacy, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Sherlock deserved it. Damn if Sherlock didn't deserve it.

"Can't you, for once, use your ow-" He stopped abruptly. Blinking at the bottom of his toolbar was an icon for his blog. It was always on his toolbar- he never knew when he would need to update it; things were unpredictable with Sherlock Holmes- but it was rarely blinking when he hadn't updated. Blinking meant that there was activity, perhaps there was a comment to moderate or accept.

He glided his finger over the touchpad, letting the cursor hover over the blog tab.

264 new comments.

John blinked, looked at the notification again. "Two hun-two hundred and sixty-four?" he breathed, leaning against Sherlock's doorframe. "Has to be buggy, has to be," he muttered, half glancing up at Sherlock, as if for confirmation. He seemed to be asleep. John looked back at his computer, tapping the blog icon.

The blog pulled up.

Welcome, John,

There are 264 new comments awaiting your approval.

John frowned, a strange sense of anxiety, as well as the general surprise, rushing through him. He hadn't even updated his blog! Why would he have two hundred and sixty-four comments when he hadn't updated?

Except. It said he had. He had a new blog post.

It clicked.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, flashing a glare towards the consulting detective. "You hacked my blog! You hate my blog, why would you hack my blog?" When he didn't recieve a response, he huffed, clicking the new blog post.

19th September

Untitled

SH here. John's ill.

That was it, four little words in a post that didn't even have a title.

But two hundred and sixty-four comments... John started scrolling.

John's ill? What's gone wrong with him? He was always a stout man- never missed a day of training.

Mike Stamford 19 September 7:08

Get well soon, mate.

Bill Murray 19 September 7:08

John? John, I'm calling you! Actually, maybe I'll call the hospital. I need information, John, is my brother going to be alright?

Harry Watson 19 September 7:08

Stop fretting. John will be fine. I managed to bring it to the doctor's attention after some time.

Sherlock Holmes 19 September 7:09

Good! I owe you, Sherlock!

Harry Watson 19 September 7:09

No, you really don't.

Sherlock Holmes 19 September 7:09

Get better soon.

Siobhan Whelan 19 September 7:10

What's wrong, John? Is everything fine with Sherlock?

Molly Hooper 19 September 7:11

I'm fine.

Sherlock Holmes 19 September 7:11

terrible

theimprobableone 19 September 7:12

Get better ASAP, John! We need your blog!

C Melas 19 September 7:12

Was it case-related? We'd love writing about this. Money will ensue.

Kym Ashman 19 September 7:14

Not interested.

Sherlock Holmes 19 September 7:14

John! You can't be sick! Get better! London needs you! (And Sherlock, too, of course, we need Sherlock.)

Jacob Sowersby 19 September 7:15

Mrs. Hudson has told me! She is extremely worried! Get better soon, John!

Marie Turner 19 September 7:15

Already missing the blog, mate. Get well soon.

Anonymous 19 September 7:15

John, I know we've had our differences, but I hope you start feeling better soon! I miss your smiling face at the surgery. It's been a rough couple weeks, hasn't it?

Sarah Sawyer 19 September 7:16

Get well soon.

Joe 19 September 7:17

Get better!

Summer 19 September 7:17

I can't live without your blog! Want details soon! Get well!

Anonymous 19 September 7:18

Get better soon, John! I can't stand the thought of you being ill! It's lonely without you at Baker Street! Sherlock thinks so, too! He wants you to wake up!

Greg Lestrade 19 September 7:19

It's Mrs. Hudson, by the way. :)

Greg Lestrade 19 September 7:19

Dear God, I should hope so.

Sherlock Holmes 19 September 7:20

Get better soon!

Surrey 19 September 7:20

What is that supposed to mean, Sherlock?

Greg Lestrade 19 September 7:20

This is Greg now

Greg Lestrade 19 September 7:20

Quick recovery!

Anonymous 19 September 7:21

Well wishes! Get better!

Stana C 19 September 7:22

It went on and on. Those were only the comments within the first fourteen minutes of Sherlock's post. It was all well wishes, comments about the blog, getting better, or Sherlock, or the case, or the illness, and get well, get well, get well.

John looked back up at Sherlock's lanky form stretched out on the bed. "You..." he trailed off, shaking his head. It was pointless. Sherlock wouldn't respond, no matter how hard he tried.

But really...

You do care, don't you, Sherlock? You'd never admit it... to me... or to anyone else, which is stupid, but you are what you are... But, you really... you have your own little way, don't you? To show you care? You care about me...

Just like that, John Watson realized that they were friends, he and Sherlock Holmes. And that was the most unforeseen circumstance of them all.

So, this chapter isn't so much a chapter a blog, ahaha. And, for avid followers who follow John's blog and know that there is an Anonymous (who may or may not be Moriarty ;D) and my Anonymous' here are not the same! And I slyly put my new penname in there... Well, I actually wrote this before I changed it, but I'm obsessed with the name Summer now.

Epilogue soon.

I don't mean to self-advertise, but if you guys could read and review my story Sherlock, it'd mean a lot. I put a lot of work and, erm, emotion into it and would like to get it out there.

If you've followed this story, leave your final thoughts! (The epilogue does not follow this story line much; it's just a final wrap-up.) Thank you so much!

EDIT: Check out my profile! I have a game. (Well, okay, it's not really a game, but, I just want to say-) THE GAME IS ON!

EDIT TWO: If you're looking for another multi-chapter to keep you busy, I've started another. It's called Returning to Life, and you can find it on my profile and I would be humbled if you guys would transfer your attentions to that story, too.